


Words in the Darkness

by pimpbuttons



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fellatio, Gen, Incest, M/M, Poetry, Power Play, Sexual Politics, Size Kink, dark themes, dub-con, interracial, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 42
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpbuttons/pseuds/pimpbuttons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herein lie: Poems. A lot of them.<br/>Pimp and Buttons prepared a challenge for one another, in which we would choose two characters from The Hobbit (namely members of Thorin's Company), choosing one to write about and one whose POV that the poem would be written from. Anything could go - platonic, dark, smutty, familial, and anything in-between. Expect nearly anything, from bittersweet lost love to deep-seated envy, alternate universes of love and loss, explorations of lives and hidden stories, and many things in-between, all told in poetic form, rather than prose.<br/>The poems will alternate, one by Buttons, then one by Pimp, and each will come with notes.<br/>Tags will be added as necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kili, on the topic of Bofur's mouth.

His tongue traces words on my flesh -  
words I do not know  
because my tongue does not work  
like his.  
My tongue is young and foolish.  
Quick, lashing, apt to taste  
without thought.

I arch into his mouth.  
He breathes stories onto my skin,  
tales to teach me lessons  
and morals  
at our most immoral moments.  
I plead for more,  
fingers pulling harsh at braids.

My uncle sleeps, with my brother  
beside him, not far.  
We must keep our quiet.  
So he tells his tales  
teaching morals and Khuzdul  
on my flesh.  
His tongue like a brand  
and mine  
senseless.


	2. Bifur, regarding Ori's interest

of all of them  
with their booming roars and nonsense voices  
you listen

although you can’t untangle  
the words of the old tongue  
you sit by me and try  
and watch my hands  
and read my knots and braids

where Bofur represents  
and Bombur tolerates  
with patience  
you struggle  
as if you realize  
my inability to speak  
has not killed  
the things I want to say

you do not know my words  
for bright eyes  
and sweetness  
but you listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're calling this pairing Boarshot  
> and it's my new favorite  
> -Pimp


	3. Bifur, on the Topic of Gentle Love from Scribes.

Spell sweet words on my skin,  
with soft touch and loving hands,  
encouraging despite my rough hold  
and asking me for more   
when you should want me to stop.

Your hands guide mine,  
leading in a dance I should remember,  
curling my fingers on your hips  
and on the part of you where  
want is most obvious.

Beneath me, you speak  
and I think I know the words  
but I cannot understand.  
You cry, but pull at me and   
don't let me draw away.

There are bruises, on you  
and on me from your nails and   
desperate slaps to make me slow.  
But you kiss them, and  
you kiss me with need lingering.

I have you again, on your belly,  
yanking your hips to me,  
burying myself in your heat.  
You shout for me, some part pain  
some part a cry for me 

to wreck you, as I am wrecked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some more Boarshot!  
> \- Buttons


	4. Dwalin, regarding Bilbo's practicality

Only one use for a body like that  
Soft round curves of men  
Pale elf skin, pointed ears

No forge-muscles or hard eyes  
Thin little fingers  
Good for picking locks and little else  
Callused only from embroidery  
Occasional pastry burns

Only one use for the warble  
High and unsure  
Nervous flutters like a trapped bird

And I kept waiting for the night I’d get it  
We all would, time for each  
Hands in his hair and a trickle of blood where it counted  
To pay us back in kind for food and fire  
On the dark rock roads

But every night he tucks in  
Whining over scratches in his bedroll  
Cheeks dry, voice even  
It’s a waste  
But I am patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Pimp


	5. Bilbo, On Bofur and Bedjoys.

Shh, shh, shh,  
you whisper,  
you shush.  
Your hands cover  
grasp, and pull,  
guiding,  
tugging,  
I shout my pleasure to Mahal.

Shh, shh, shh,  
you manage,  
you chuckle.  
Your mustache tickles,  
burns, and covers  
your smile,  
your grin,   
my thigh.  
I whimper my pleasure to night sky.

Shh, shh, shh,  
you try,  
you breathe.  
Your voice shakes,  
echoes and blends  
with mine,  
over mine.  
We chorus our pleasure for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbofur and some loving stuff~  
> -Buttons


	6. Bilbo, regarding Balin's memories

was it beautiful  
I want to ask  
in the quiet of low fires  
although of course I know it was

I want to hear you say it  
to follow your voice  
through iron gates  
and halls of living stone

did the pantries smell of spices  
strings of apples  
tied, dried boughs of sage?

did sound carry  
echoing  
while little Thorin played  
a hundred years before my birth?

I want to ask about the mines  
and how the light would catch the veins of gold  
the color of the rugs  
and the clink of fork on royal china

but you look into the flames  
the blackened wood  
and spreading ash  
and I remember what you see there

and I hold my tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	7. Kili, on Being the King's Consort.

I drip:  
gold, diamonds, emeralds,  
rubies, silver baubles,  
mithril beads of close cut design,  
cloth from places on maps  
I am not required to learn,  
succulent honey from my lips,  
sweet oil, perfumes,  
your seed.

I say:  
titles, pleasantries, greetings,  
whispers, cautious advice,  
suggestions from a tongue still learning,  
soft speech only for your ears   
to be acted upon in privacy,  
half-broken pleas for something,  
your name, groans,  
fuck me.

I move:  
arching, twisting, writhing,  
spreading, rolling hips,  
fingers grasping at broad shoulders,  
body dancing with yours  
to a beat I have come to cherish,  
shoulders tensing with effort,  
toes curling, shaking,  
to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a weakness for Consort arrangements and marriages... and Kili is my bicycle.  
> -Buttons


	8. Dwalin, regarding Ori's technique

trying so hard  
not to break you  
just like I tried  
not to want you  
and hoping I don’t fail  
as completely

been with all sorts  
thick rough men  
soldiers under cliffsides  
clinging to life and to wounds  
and the guttural fear of our maker

fair lasses of Town  
who wanted a taste  
of the sweat and the seed  
of the guardsmen  
pudgy and soft  
under hand  
soaking and swole  
under skirt

but never  
in the places I’ve hung my boots  
or slid my aching need  
have I felt this

and you bruise like a peach  
and your spurts come with screams  
and you sing as pretty as a jay

the flush on your cheek  
and the pile  
glimpsed peripherally  
of knitted gifts  
and love knots  
set the tone

for your wandering hands  
and the wanton bites you try to leave  
on the stone of my neck  
my palms cover you up  
and I don’t give a fuck  
what your brothers think  
you’re mine  
and you know it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	9. Thorin, on the Topic of a Begging Prince.

I am chained,  
but you are pliant.  
You beg for me in the deep halls  
in your father's kingdom,  
whispering as though he might hear  
from his lofty throne above.  
Creaking iron doors near-deafen  
but are little compared to the sound  
of your knees touching the floor  
as you kneel properly for a proper king.  
A prince, in your own regard,  
raised on sweetness and in wild wood,  
but you are not like the prince  
that mine own princes are  
and I know your father playing at king  
has lain hand on them in turn.  
And so I show you;  
I show you how a proper king  
deserves proper tribute from a subject  
who has worth to prove.  
You cry and cry out in muffled tones,  
no longer concerned about the toy king,  
on his toy throne, might believe he hears  
from the deep dungeons beneath him  
where his prince, on bruised knees  
with bruised lips and choking throat,  
pays respects to a king  
in chains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	10. Bofur, regarding Dori's lost affluence

it’s awful, really  
that a face like yours  
isn’t blessed with easy smiles

you’d bring him by  
clutching at your sleeves and pointing  
‘lookit dori, carvings’  
but you were cold as mountain wind  
when you pulled him away

you’re beautiful, you know that  
hands strong and smooth as oak  
stare of tempered steel

I slipped your dwarrow brother  
a carving  
a gift  
as you passed  
it was a falcon  
sleek  
deadly  
lonely  
the kind that keep their plumage clean  
to be seen by no one

I hoped it would make its way back to you  
I hoped it would be a totem in the dark  
to remind you that there is dignity still  
when you’re feral  
when you’re lost  
when you screech at empty skies  
and your feet are soaked with blood.

we’re not so different, really  
you stand on a balcony  
but you built it out of trash  
from your own bones and grit teeth  
and you climbed over ‘Whore-son’ and ‘Bastard’  
carried your family’s shame on your back  
used your mother’s tears  
as footholds  
and for years we watched you build it

but the fire came  
and all your work was ashes  
your pedestal gone and you fell  
to the ground  
where the likes of me lived

I could almost hear the scream  
when you landed

we walked together for a time  
in the lowlands and the foothills  
unhallowed earth and brown grass for miles  
following a broken king  
and I wanted to tell you it would be alright

there’s dignity here  
the proud and quiet lives  
of little people  
thick and rough  
but warm  
with coal dust in our dimples  
and tables laid with sweat

but you fought it  
I don’t blame you  
there was no pride in you  
to be barefoot  
in the fallen leaves

our poverty was nameless  
a way of life  
a daily test of bonds and strength of backs and love and sacrifice  
yours was different

your empty pockets screamed  
with strangers voices  
and told you your mother was loose  
and your brothers were nothing

you’re beautiful, you know that  
even when you’re breaking  
and your face smoothes over  
porcelain  
fired and glazed 

you’re beautiful still  
with bramble scratches on your soul  
and the soft bits of your legs  
the strength that twitches and cords in you

even your sadness is beautiful  
but though song and words fail  
I would move mountains  
for a smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	11. Bombur, on the subject of the Sons of Ri and Sons, in General.

You don't remember me,  
as I was not worthy to remember.  
I worked in the steam of a kitchen.  
My brother's hands worked wood.  
My cousin could not speak.  
We were the sons of miners,  
and you were the sons of merchants.  
Yours gave coin excess to ours,  
in exchange for the work of our   
tires hands, and backs, and bodies.

Later, on the road,  
ours gave food and clothes and toys  
in exchange for nothing,  
so that your small brother   
and his smile  
might survive winter without home.  
You are a creature of shame,  
of fallen house,  
and we are the sons of miners.  
We are the sons of wood,  
the sons of lost words,  
the sons of little food for many.

Later, on the road,  
you saw me, and my brother, and my cousin,  
and our food, and wood, and axe.  
And you looked away.  
Ashamed.  
For we are the sons of miners,   
and you are the sons of merchants,  
who begged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	12. Ori, regarding Kili's Familial Tastes

I never looked at my brothers that way  
the way you look at yours  
soft as moonlight and bright and burning

they were my comforters  
cradle and spoon  
they led me and held me and   
tickled and soothed

and nothing in me was awakened  
in bed or bath

but I don’t think you’re wrong in it

and I know what it’s like to feel wanting  
the twitch and heat  
because I’ve seen the shadowed planes of you  
in rock pools  
slicking away the sweat on rest days

and I have watched forge hammers fall  
and kick up fewer sparks  
than those that rise in me  
to hear you two at night

and I cannot really want you  
because the loveliness of wrist and jaw  
cannot match the sight of you together

I would not wish you parted

and I will not say I covet what you have  
because the love I have for brothers is just that

but when I touch myself at night  
it is not between my legs  
but an arm across my back  
working the knots from my shoulders  
with the easy, lazy circles  
I watch him spin on you across the fire  
a song of touch you two have sung to each  
across uncounted precious years

and I don’t have one of my own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	13. Dwalin, on the subject of Fili and a Lost Prince.

A ghost hides in your face.  
He edges your gaze  
and smiles with your lips,   
casting glances   
that he lost his chance to cast.  
He is with you.  
Of you.  
Of me.  
Of the blood on my hands,  
when I find you,  
struggling and gasping  
to find your brother on the field.

I feel I have been here before,  
Khazad-dûm or Azanulbizar  
Erebor or the Desolation.  
My hands touch warm gold  
and it stains as it threads through  
my fingers.  
I never saw the look of fear  
on his face, now seen on yours.  
He looks up at me from you  
and you gasp my name  
as I lose you both  
again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of Frerin feelings...  
> -Buttons


	14. Thorin, regarding Nori and obedience

we have an understanding, you and I  
you will not touch my company  
you will not wander off  
and if that means I need you close at night  
so be it

I will keep your hands from stealing  
tethered crossways up your back  
and you can reach no knives  
from where you lay

I will keep the lies from your tongue  
by filling your mouth  
and your lips will curl only  
around me

if you will not swear fealty  
to my throne or my land  
you will swear curses  
in the night  
the puffs of labored breath  
moving dirt  
with your cheek on the ground

your nimble hands  
can barely hold you

and if there are pockets on your person  
I don’t know about  
to store your hidden goods  
this cavity  
holds nothing  
but your king

my nephews wear trinkets  
jewels and blades  
and they know not of thieves  
they show off their possessions  
easily and fearless  
and if one is misplaced  
and is found in your clothes  
or your brother’s pocket  
I will cut out your tongue  
and salt and replace it

but I don’t think it likely  
as I look in your eyes  
hungry for so much more than gold  
as you suck on your knees

we have an understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	15. Nori, on the topic of Bofur's Past.

Music thrums in your throat,  
tingles in my skin,   
echoes in my bones.   
I know this song,  
from a time long ago,  
and a time not so,   
rumbling through stone walls  
between iron bars  
because they were not so cruel  
as to trap dwarves from stone,  
murderers, thieves, traitors  
or not.

My eyes find you,  
across the fire,  
across the river,  
across the hall,  
across the space between  
my pony and yours.  
And you smile, giving away  
nothing but the tale in your eyes –  
the only tale you won't tell  
because there are no  
heroes.

The question sticks in my throat,  
gums at my teeth,  
begs to be voiced.  
What did you do?  
What put you behind those iron bars?  
Do you have black marks,  
on your hands, on your soul?  
Have you paid the price of  
being the middle son,  
with one too young  
and one dealt a life unfair?  
What tale is it that  
you hide?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	16. Ori, regarding Oin's tutelage

Balin is my master  
teaching me the script and scroll  
helping me make sense of ink  
and capture deeds and song and story

Thorin is my leader  
lighting the way through the dank of blood  
with sword gleams  
and fiery lust for gold  
and vengeance

but none have led or taught as he

in the dust of the back room  
he reads portents  
twisting truth from stars

he taught me the secrets of fire  
how the shape and scent of flametongues  
had their meaning  
and left clues in swirls of ash

I stripped for him  
my virgin blood essential  
as a token  
the only gift for furies  
for dead kings and nature gods

his knotted fingers read my skin  
tearing answers from the heedless  
gods of fate and birth and death

each freckle told a story  
for we are born, he tells me  
with the answers to the universe

he shed his brass horn by the door  
there was no need for words  
and nothing I could say  
was worth interrupting for

we were unashamed  
to paint my body with the sacred ash  
and channel lights from the ether  
it was a holy thing

and I was unafraid  
for he was with me  
and in his eyes were wisdom  
and his words were deep with magicks  
and when the knife bit home  
he took my finger in his mouth

we split bones  
patterned rocks  
spilled hen blood on the stone

we prayed for family  
he for his brother and nephew  
the wandering soul of his Erebor love  
and I for my own vagabond  
and the hard love of the eldest  
and we begged   
and demanded  
their safety

I watched the firelight take him  
the concentration painful  
as he gleamed the flight of bird to mountain  
in reflecting pools  
of silver we smelted ourselves

we locked eyes  
and he nodded  
It Is Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	17. Balin, on the topic of who Dwalin has become.

I recall a time:  
you were smaller,  
smaller than I  
and soft in youth.  
You plead,  
nightmares plaguing,  
and I hold you close,  
to chase away dragons.

You recall a time:  
battle so brutal,  
so entrenching,  
that you forgot yourself,  
that you fought because  
it was all you knew.  
You say, though,  
that you fought  
with purpose and madness.

I cannot recall a time  
when I looked to you  
and stopped myself  
from saying   
anything.  
I cannot recall a time  
before this,  
before you swore your blades  
before you fought your battles  
before you gave up all  
and became someone I did not know,  
I cannot recall a time  
that I was so  
afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	18. Fili, regarding Bifur's resemblance

he’s one of those things you don’t talk about  
his name rolls off the tongue when you mention his cousins  
but you don’t talk about him  
ever

He was a great warrior once  
fearless  
probably reckless  
like someone else I know

I try not to think about it  
imagine the axe had just  
always  
been there  
some childhood accident  
his mother swallowed it  
anything

because I can’t accept  
that those things happen  
the vibrant laid low  
and abandoned  
changed  
or even worse  
just trapped

he wanders like an old man  
weaving  
confused  
though he’s barely middle-aged

I push it from my mind  
and don’t let myself think  
of familiar eyes  
fogged and bewildered  
under the cleft of a handle  
speaking nonsense  
and not understanding  
our shared night time whispers  
anymore

because the last time I tried to talk about Bifur  
they all told me  
anyone else  
would have died

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	19. Bifur, on Fili's relationship to Khuzdul.

To me  
you come  
in hope.  
With me  
you seek  
your words.  
For him.  
For us.  
For home.  
To be king  
you wish  
you pray  
you plead  
to speak  
in our tongue.  
It fights you.  
You choke  
on words  
I share  
and cry  
for a past  
that is not  
quite  
yours,  
as much  
as you want  
it to be.  
I touch.  
Soft.  
Wipe tears,  
pet braids  
soothe hurts.  
Tell you   
to fight  
for words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	20. Thorin, regarding Ori's willing substitution

their voices chime  
and call over hills while they frolic  
they roll in grass together  
and wrestle in play

and I watch them  
the sinew of their arms and legs atangle  
sweat on the wild violets  
and I am racked with want

but they are kin  
and they speak volumes of their loyalty  
with every flick of eye and the depth  
of their bows to me  
I would not betray them

I will not call them to my chambers  
to be draped in gold  
like harems lost  
in bygone days

I will not think  
of how their lips curl like their mothers  
and how she once decided  
she was done with our games  
and snuck nightly into my bed  
no longer  
I will not dwell  
on how I miss those touches  
on the supple twine of flesh on flesh

I will distract  
they are not the only taste of youth in my company  
and this one is eager to please  
he draws pictures  
tracing his cravings on parchment  
rendering with charcoal what his fingers long to touch  
and granting my portrait’s eyes soulfulness  
they have not known  
in decades

when I call him  
he is willing  
and if I hurt him  
his whimpers are soft  
he is not my nephews  
but he keeps silent  
and lets me turn his face  
into the pillow  
so that I may dream  
and believe  
as I wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	21. Dwalin, on the Topic of Bruising and Baggins.

I could smother you.  
Larger bodies fall to these hands  
and the weapons of my person.  
I could destroy you,  
and I seek to.  
You bend easily,  
more easily than the stone  
which dwarves build themselves from.  
You arch and mewl and make  
all manner of soft sounds,   
with your soft throat,  
for the pleasure of your soft body.  
Pale and delicate-fleshed,  
bruises bloom on you with little effort,  
and I enjoy the sight of my hands  
printed for days on your hips  
and your thighs.  
I could crush you, fuck you  
into a broken state,  
leave you shaking until   
your last breath rattles from your   
slender chest.  
Instead, cupping your throat  
with a hand that threatens  
your undoing,  
I encourage you  
to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	22. Bilbo, regarding Fili's unexpected affections

I didn’t think I could pull you away  
that anyone could  
from your overeager  
boisterous  
child of a second half  
as much as it disgusted me  
we all assumed

and the both of you were sweet enough  
and not obnoxious  
if not exactly subtle  
by hobbit standards the flirting was obvious

so when you brought me the ingot  
made of gold and carved with runes  
and offered to braid it into my hair  
if I would have you  
I was somewhat surprised

but how could I ask  
how could I clarify  
what it is I thought you had  
and you were gorgeous  
and strong  
and had I not been so convinced  
I might have considered you

so I take it  
and your fingers move with love to knot my curls  
like they move in me tender  
that night

and you showed the company my allegiance  
with the bead at my temple  
and I decided not to notice  
when Kili took his out  
and the glint of it  
abandoned in the fire pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	23. Oin, on the Topic of Gloin.

I midwifed first for you.  
My hands reached for you  
to guide you  
to bring you  
into our family,  
despite being too small  
to hold you.

I bandaged first for you.  
My fingers wrapped for you  
to cover you  
to heal you  
from small tumbles,  
despite my clumsy efforts  
to soothe you.

I fought first for you.  
My arms swung for you  
to defend you  
to show you  
that any could fight,  
despite not having strength  
to teach you.

I apprenticed first for you.  
My mind learned for you  
to thank you  
to repay you  
for the passion you gave,  
despite being afraid  
to disappoint you.

I traveled first for you.  
My legs journeyed for you  
to guide you  
to follow you  
into the dragon's stolen lair  
despite the growing fear   
to lose you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	24. Thorin, regarding Nori and loyalty

you do not fit with them, your brothers  
they are rounded at the edges  
strong but smooth  
they have breakfast at tables  
and wake to birdsong

you are sharp and hard and angled  
often broken  
and hastily mended  
your food is swallowed between footfalls  
your shoulders quick to tense

the wizard says we need a burglar  
and I humor him  
knowing full well  
that the baubles on your coat  
were not purchased  
that the ring of red  
around each wrist  
was worn like wind-hewn rock  
by many days and nights in jail

I am told I should not trust you  
by wise counsel  
and I heed it  
I do not place my trust in your word  
or the shift of your eyes  
or your fabricated past  
and cobbled history

I trust your hand on your brother’s shoulder  
the steel in your eyes when he falters  
uneven portions of food

I trust the look on your face as you sharpen your sword

we are sharp and hard and angled  
and we do what we must for our people

when bellies rumble  
and hands crack  
and heels bleed

a crown  
and coat baubles  
mean nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	25. Thorin, on the topic of Ori's covetousness.

Ink-stained fingers reach  
grasping for something you have  
no right to covet.  
I see them -  
your fingertips -  
brushing at golden braids,  
lingering on dark tangles.  
You want for both,  
greedy with desire  
you don't understand.

I want to strike you down.  
My hands fight  
to still yours,  
and stop them from touching,  
but I know you are just  
a child, who knows not  
what law he might break.  
They are princes,  
and you,  
a scribe of merchants.

Perhaps, I will teach you.  
I will show you  
the strength of our line.  
You will learn what it means  
to lie with a king,  
before you consider  
what it might mean  
to lie with   
princes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	26. Fili, regarding Dwalin and brief escape

solace in the comforts  
of little pains  
of ruts on ridges  
of being slightly torn

it’s exhausting  
being the elder  
the heir  
and though I wouldn’t trade it for the world  
I need to let go  
and hand over the reins

you are happy to take up the mantle  
and we pretend  
for the night  
I’m a concubine

while you delight in royal flesh  
the closest your half blooded line will get  
to sitting on a throne  
I soak up the smell of you  
rough animal sounds  
and for once  
am not treated like gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	27. Dori, on the Topic of the Wandering Wizard.

Where were you?  
Grey Maia,  
When our people  
wandered the roads,  
broken,  
and lost themselves.

Where were you?  
Grey Pilgrim,  
when my small brother  
cried to the heavens  
for food  
to fill his belly.

Where were you?  
Greyhame,  
when we fought  
to settle in the mountains,  
our coffers  
and pantries empty.

Why are you here?  
Olórin,  
Stormcrow,   
Gandalf,  
gathering our people  
and giving him the key  
to home  
without giving us answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	28. Dwalin, regarding The Brothers Ri and their usage

you offered yourself in his stead  
when you saw my wandering eyes  
my shoulders leaning heavy in his doorway

“He isn’t ready,”  
you insisted  
implored  
that I leave him be  
and to conquer my needs  
the hunger that would have me take him  
you offered your services  
“I am good at what I do.”

and so you were  
your hands are quick and light  
and you know how to open your throat to me  
and swallow what you’re given

you let me do what I wished to you  
and how much was acting and how much was habit  
if any was real  
I don’t know  
but you strutted and swayed  
and put on a show for me  
my satisfaction was paramount

you worked tirelessly into the night  
against walls and on floors  
and you never complained  
there was always more you could do

and when you were spent  
and allotted what you thought  
was proper time laying against me  
to follow it through  
and end the thing  
you crept away  
and your eyes begged the question your lips and your honor would not ask  
and my gaze was steady  
you had no choice but to trust

in the end he came to me  
I did not pursue him  
but the groundwork was set  
and he wanted it himself  
he stole near in the night  
and ran hands down my chest  
waking me  
taking me  
into the trees

I felt no betrayal of our bargain

and he was not experienced as you were  
but he learned  
and his need for me was real

I didn’t tell him what you did  
what you laid down at my feet to save him  
or rather  
what you wanted him to be  
I didn’t tell him what you reduced yourself to  
in the lamplight

so when you came back  
for another dose  
to sate the beast in me  
and keep him safe  
I said nothing  
and let you  
knowing he would be back  
to finish what you left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if Kili is Button's bicycle, Dwalin is mine  
> dwalinxeverybody
> 
> -pimp


	29. Ori, on the Attempt of Love with Bofur.

Your hands make mine seem soft,  
delicate,  
weak,  
untested.  
There are callouses on your fingers  
which mine will never know.  
Scars from mining,  
from working with stone,  
scars from working wood  
with knives I will never handle.  
My hands make my story hollow,  
strained,  
grasping,  
trite.  
My callouses are from quills and  
bites from paper's edge.  
These are small scars,  
with little notoriety to their birth,  
scars from playing games  
with words and stories not my own.  
Our hands seem mismatched,  
unsettled,  
ill-fated,  
disparate.  
There is another, for us both.  
We may not want them, as we want  
what we have.  
But even as we try, I know  
and you deny that we are not  
of matching scar tissue.  
Your hands hold onto mine which seek,  
reach,  
stretch,  
to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	30. Kili, regarding brother and uncle

we were always competitive  
never unfriendly  
there was little to gain in our lives  
we wanted for nothing

your only advantage the throne  
and there was no changing it  
money meant nothing  
we were too young for battle

affection was our only sport  
the only test of skill  
within our reach  
with useful prizes

we fought for favouritism, nepotism, praise  
we measured his voice and cries  
the redness of cheek  
and shortness of breath  
as each of us plied our trades

I had hands  
archer’s hands  
strong and lithe  
and steady

you had lips  
soft and clever  
twisted in a winning smirk  
beneath blonde braids

both of us had youth  
our stamina matched  
and our passion and drive  
unbridled and paralleled

we went into overtime long ago  
no clear winners  
and he would never say  
definitively  
who was better

best two out of three  
or three out of five  
until we were too spent to count  
and we shared the winner’s cup  
a royal shoulder  
to sleep on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder that everything I do, Buttons makes me  
> -pimp


	31. Gloin, on the Price of Princes and Sons.

There are scarce years between,  
you and you and him,  
but enough to leave him behind,  
shouting curses at us  
which he might not have chance  
to call back.

I know the worth of those years,  
the weight of the gold  
in training,  
in experience,  
in laughter,  
in boyhood.

My fingers shift beads on the abacus.

The daggers in your well-crafted sheaths,  
made by your uncle himself,  
worth a month of meals.  
The bow and arrows and training to use,  
commissioned from a ranger,  
cost a bauble from Erebor's past.

It weighs in your favor,  
our quest, our journey, your hope.  
Mountains are promised to you  
in kingdoms and in gold,  
and most beads are in your benefit.

But the battle calls on all debts,  
all costs, and all payments  
are given in full.  
The daggers crack, and the bow  
and the boys are lost,  
and the beads fall away.

Later, he joins.  
He comes with sorrow  
and tears and grief and asks  
for your daggers  
for your arrows,  
for your laughter and boyhood.  
I thank any and all,  
for the price I did not have  
to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	32. Dis, regarding the scraping together of leftover things

dwalin  
the guardsman  
the clansman  
the keeper  
lifts you from your cradle  
like a slithering thing  
with too many legs

he looks at me and wonders  
why I didn't drown you in the river  
line-mongrel  
fourteen pounds of disappointment  
and sometimes I think about it  
but perhaps he cannot understand

it was my duty  
from that day  
the last sun in my long life  
when they brought home  
my babies' swords to me

the line of durin would not end  
so long as I had womb and will  
to let it would be less  
than what my family deserved

and when the traitor took your throne  
the gilded seat  
earned by brother  
and meant for son  
I stood by  
and watched  
and accepted

I would not rule from that place

but I would not betray my boys

and so I smiled  
thin and weak and wan  
and he believed  
and the serpent of hate  
curled ever tighter inside me

and I took from him seed  
and spun it into a babe  
a half-blooded Durin  
to carry your name  
and avenge the theft of you from me

he believed I was a loving wife  
if cold  
if distant  
I was dwarvish and stoic and crippled with grief  
a cool composure was expected

and if I died the night he claimed me  
and every night since  
it was no more than you sacrificed

he does not touch me anymore  
I would not have it  
but Dain is proud and foolish  
and I let him call this thing his son

but Dili  
my baby  
who could never replace  
who could never repay  
is no more Dain's son than the dragon  
despite his fat nose  
and sick eyes  
from the watered blood of that lineage  
Dili is the joining of myself and the gods of war  
the harbingers of rage and hate  
that have truly become my lovers  
that follow me through day  
and warm me at night

and it is these who raise him  
and shape him

someday he will be a warrior  
he will fight  
he will cut the elf-king's hair  
and lay his body on the stone  
in pieces

he will be known as the goblin-destroyer  
bathed in more orc effluence  
than any before him  
a force of destruction  
a righteous gale  
who will stand when I cannot  
and take up arms against this world  
in the name of brothers he never knew  
and an uncle he should have resembled

and when he is formed  
and strong  
and grown

I will take my brother's sword  
my elder's knives  
my younger's dagger  
and I will pin Dain to the bed  
and reclaim my throne  
for Dili  
and he will cry to me that he tried  
that he sent help  
to the battle that killed my world  
and I will tell him

too little  
too late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so have my Dis feels because I have too many  
> it's like when you accidentally cover your whole hand in lotion and wander around  
> like   
> please take some of this I'm drowning
> 
> this is how these feels are for me
> 
> -pimp


	33. Thorin, on the Dedication of Dwalin.

Son of kings, son of madness,  
son of a mountain empty but for ash  
and the drake that burns all I knew.  
My hands claw for purchase   
on the sheer cliff edge which  
threatens to spill me down  
onto broken stone.  
Your hands find mine.  
I am pulled up.  
Pulled close.  
Pulled apart and   
pulled open  
and left sobbing for more  
beneath your hips and your hands  
and your promising mouth,  
swearing your soul and sword  
to me.  
Falling for you,  
to pieces,  
to heart,  
I promise things I might not give,  
and you take what you can get;  
I still give you plenty.  
A would-be king on his back,  
a prince on his knees,  
a leader pleading for a cock,  
to come, to lick, to suck,  
to be hit, to be led,  
for more.  
And you give,  
you give even as you take  
and swear everything  
to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Buttons


	34. Kili, regarding Dwalin's many duties

it was beneath a king  
to dole out punishments  
even to princes  
the long arm of the law  
could not also hold a sceptre  
he decided what we’d earned  
our crimes’ severity  
but while he was judge and jury  
you were warden

it was your knee that I memorized  
your handprints on my bottom  
your stern reproach when I  
forever tried  
to leave my corner  
before the time was done

I love my uncle  
and he taught me much  
mother-brother  
king and tutor  
lord and master  
of the house

but his was not the hand  
that taught me lessons  
and his were not the arms  
that held me after  
when I cried  
and his was not the shoulder  
not the furs  
that heard my soft apologies  
and his was not the voice  
that gave forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Pimp


	35. Bilbo, on Young Love and Ancient Law.

Smudges of ink  
your cheek and my hand both  
darkened, dirtied  
from a brush illicit  
and dangerous to us both.  
Withdraw and recoil;  
struck down by customs  
older than the both of us  
and our fathers and mothers,  
pushed apart by centuries,  
held back by ancient law  
and left to nothing more  
than the small notes  
passed from pack  
to pocket,  
or pressed into palms  
while passing without  
looking into the eyes  
we yearn  
to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's difficult to tell, this one is about Ori from Bilbo. <3  
> -Buttons


	36. Nori, regarding Bilbo's unworthiness

some burglar you are  
fat little thing  
in a tailored vest  
you’ve never thieved  
because you’ve never needed to

I’ve seen your house  
bedecked in useless shit and fancy frillies  
nothing locked away  
nothing sacred  
in the ways of those who have too much  
and want for nothing  
what would it matter if something were lost

you don’t belong with us  
you’ve nothing to reclaim  
you don’t know loss or hunger  
you whinge for missing home  
but yours exists  
it’s warm and waiting  
not littered with family bones  
scattered heirlooms  
you can go back when you like

they took you as a payment  
the price we paid for wizard’s magicks  
for the blessing of the StormCrow  
you bear no merit  
don’t pretend  
to be insulted

my brother is fond of you  
he sketches in his books  
your curling hair  
and child’s face  
he would protect you  
unskilled and endangered himself  
against goblins  
and orcs  
but I’ve seen the looks you give our leader

and if it comes to pass  
that Ori should step between a blade and you  
before I can pull him away  
or you step on his heart  
for your misgiven, fruitless love  
I will end you  
so help me  
I will teach you the meaning of loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Pimp


	37. Thorin, on the Songs of Mothers and Sisters and Queens.

Songs echo through the halls  
of a home unbefitting a princess  
a queen of royal blood,  
a mother of princes and heirs,  
a sister to kings.  
You sing the tales of our ancestors,  
our forefathers, our father  
(there are no songs of mothers past  
even though our sons ask for them).  
In dream and fever dream,  
calling for a voice not heard in seasons,  
calling for a song crooned to  
infants in beds of soft swaddling cloth,  
not beds of sick with swathes of bandages.  
Hands grasp for hands not there,  
pleading on my tongue in pain,  
and agony, calling names  
not called for even by the fading  
sons of our line.  
And in silence,  
in silence following clashing battle,  
you sing again.  
Songs of your sons,  
songs of my life,  
songs of our sacrifice,  
songs of our glory,  
songs of your grief.  
And you take a throne not meant  
to be yours, but never intended  
to be his.  
And you make songs of foremothers  
and you sing songs of sister-sons,  
mothers, sisters,  
queens.  
And our people  
sing with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or that time Dis decided enough loss was enough.  
> -Buttons


	38. Bofur, regarding Bifur, love, and healing

you were there  
in the night  
when there were monsters  
when we cried out for dead mothers  
when our beds didn’t feel like home

you were there  
gently finding  
when we hid under cupboards  
to cry

you were there  
when there was no one  
when it meant no time for you  
no love to fill your hours  
but the love you had for us  
when you were still young  
and should have been playing  
yourself

not even grown, you held us  
against the bitter winds  
you told us stories  
and gave us songs

bombur got better  
learned to make the best of things  
so very like you  
never solemn  
he took his love for Mama Ur  
and wove it into recipes  
he bragged about how strong she was  
the color of her hair  
as if the pain was fleeting  
and we hadn’t seen her nose bone  
under blackened skin  
and char

and I tried my best  
to be like you both  
to carve my toys  
and be merry  
but the pain still came  
and I still cried at night  
I just did it softly  
and still you were always there

when it happened  
it seemed like all was lost  
the day they brought you home  
you couldn’t speak  
you slept the sleep of hopelessness  
the doctors hung their heads

and we stayed by your side  
and Bombur raised a balrog  
somewhere deep  
and grew five years at once  
and stared them down  
his voice like drums  
and made them stay

I was not strong like that  
even for you  
and I apologize

but we stayed by your side  
while they cleaned out the pus  
and rebandaged the soaking abscess  
and our love for you was such  
that we felt no disgust

I prayed to Mahal  
every night  
even when I didn’t believe

I carved you toys  
and left them on your bedside  
I told you stories you told us  
but my voice was not as mighty  
my words nothing close  
to prose  
my laughter did not chime like yours  
but I thought you might remember  
if I tried

when you awoke  
bleary  
anew  
strange  
we did not care  
we held you close  
and rocked you  
and it was you who cried

and when they stared at you in markets  
we held our chins high  
for you  
because they would never know  
what you were for us

there was no discussion  
the word ‘condition’ was banished in our house  
you were Bifur  
you were one of us  
you would always be perfect and you

and you still held our hands when we crossed a road  
even when we grew  
and it was no longer us  
who could not see the carts in time

and the man who might have loved you  
stopped giving you glances  
and winking your way  
and we cursed his name  
it was our fault you never had time

you grew  
and you learned  
you got better

and after a time you could speak  
in a fashion  
though we filled in the blanks  
and spoke for you  
in public

and the first night you realized  
your iglishmek  
had not abandoned you  
you waved your hands  
and called us over  
and told us a story

and smiled  
and I have been smiling since

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	39. Dwalin, on Murder in the Mines.

An accident.  
The whispers speak of an accident,  
and the mention of family name  
leads me to believe  
they mean the cousin who  
crafts toys to delight and frighten.  
An accident,  
they said, in the mines,  
and I nodded along,  
waving them away from bothering  
while I drink after chasing  
thieves in the streets.  
An accident,   
they insist, and they press further  
to show that they do not mean  
in the distant past and war  
but in my city.  
And I listen now.  
An accident,  
in the mines, that morning,  
a line snapped and a miner lost,  
to the caverns containing   
little more than iron dust  
and new bones.  
An accident,  
I begin to look into after urgent  
pressing pleas from the families  
of other miners concerned,  
afraid of losing theirs  
to another line.  
An accident?  
Touching rope not frayed from  
long strain and ill care, but instead  
cut away in smooth stroke  
helped by tension, and I think,  
there is more to the tale.  
No accident.  
And the one with the easy smile  
and disarming charm is the one  
who settled in the rope beside  
the broken figure at the cavern bottom,  
seems the most likely.  
No accident,  
I realize, finding knives on him,  
knives for toymaking used  
to cut rope and send dwarves  
to their deaths in the stone,  
yet I still cannot believe.  
No accident?  
Cuffs heavy on his wrists  
but he just smiles as they lock  
like their weight is familiar,  
and says he is but a miner's son  
and a worker in the mines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this one is a little less obvious -- exploring a potential, darker side of Bofur...
> 
> \- Buttons


	40. Fili, regarding the privileges of a silent audience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY NON-CON  
> Since this one needs a little explaining, Buttons' prompt was a dark poem in which Kili was born mute.

from the moment they held you the first time  
and slapped you  
and heard nothing  
we knew

you were lively and bright  
there was no doubt of your resilience  
squirming and crying  
in silence  
your mouth a stubborn O

and as we grew  
I spoke for you  
I always knew  
what you needed  
what you wanted  
I could read your eyes  
and the strength of your hand  
in mine

we played for long hours  
in corridors of stone  
and mine was the only laugh that echoed

and still we grew  
and still we changed  
and still you stayed silent

and in the gardens you would point  
and I would explain to you  
flowers, roots, herbs  
and I taught you the knife  
and I carved you arrows  
to shoot with at rats

and we loved each other  
you never had to say it

and still we grew  
and still we changed  
and still you stayed silent

and when I was taller  
and thicker

when our smells changed and our mornings  
were heralded with different parts  
awake before we were  
you pointed  
and I tried to explain

and still we grew  
and still we changed  
and still you stayed silent

and when my fancy turned to you  
and I no longer tried to read  
what you needed  
what you wanted  
when I decided for you  
it was me  
you made no sound  
and told no one

and your wrist was pinned  
against the stone  
and I ignored  
the squeezing of your hand  
on mine

and when your mouth opened  
and shut  
on the cold dungeon air  
and your lips moved  
in silent words  
it made no more difference  
than the wind  
outside

and still we grew  
and still we changed  
and still you stayed silent

you never ran  
you never told  
though with shameful mime you might have  
with drawings or clumsy script  
you could have explained  
what I did  
and still do  
when I want to

but I think you know better

and still you follow me  
down hallways  
even when it means  
we are alone  
you take the risk

because no one else  
has ever cared enough  
to listen  
and I'm all you've got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -pimp


	41. Kili, on Lust and Golden Brothers.

Goldlust tastes bitter,  
like bile in my throat  
or those fruits from the east  
that Uncle never lets us eat,  
doesn't like the red that paints  
our hands, our mouths.

Goldlust feels heavy,  
hunching my shoulders,  
crooking my fingers as I grasp  
for that which I long to keep  
in a way that most others  
hoard our wealth.

Goldlust dulls sound,  
ashens tastes, dims eyes,  
covers sensation with coarse cloth,  
if it is not you that I hear,  
that I taste, that I see,  
that I clutch to my chest.

Goldlust - the trait  
our people have tried  
to breed out, but always suffered-  
goldlust overwhelms me and  
overcomes me and  
I curl my fingers in your hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Golden Dwarves May Induce Madness.  
> \- Buttons


	42. Bombur, Regarding Bofur's New Employment

They don't look at you  
The guards, the maids, the men  
I still don't understand  
They act like looking at your face  
Is stealing

You tell me you're a messenger  
But what do you send  
And how do you serve

No messenger I've ever known wore silks  
Gold bangles  
Long chains  
And when I ask you cringe

Your smile is worn and wan  
Your laugh is hollow ashes  
Your fingers twitch and rub  
Like a leper  
At his sores

You will not let me in  
You will not speak your sorrows  
My food grows tasteless  
As I watch you decay

And every day  
More gold  
To weigh you down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Pimp  
> Buttons and I wrote an AU in which Bofur is the King's private and unwilling Consort. Sugardaddies can be rough, Bofur...


End file.
